


you don't know what goodbye means.

by kuraku



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Guns, Human Trafficking, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Kidnapping, M/M, Minor Violence, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:27:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21869011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuraku/pseuds/kuraku
Summary: an experienced kidnapper, chanyeol’s next job is none other than byun baekhyun, a rich kid who has to pay for his father’s sins. unfortunately, the job doesn’t go as easily as chanyeol wants it to. is he really going to fall for those big brown eyes?♫  alan walker - tired (feat. gavin james)【 SONG FOR YOU: THE SECOND ALBUM → #191 】
Relationships: Byun Baekhyun/Park Chanyeol
Comments: 8
Kudos: 35
Collections: Song For You : The Second Album





	you don't know what goodbye means.

It’s the first time that the banging has stopped so soon. Normally, it goes on for miles and miles, like there’s some huge glass jar clunking around in the back, knocking into hard metal pipes and chunks of steel, and sometimes it’s even audible over the sound of the radio. Through the heavy wailing of rock singers or the screeching rift of electric guitars, Chanyeol can usually still hear it, even faintly--his little bag of bones in the trunk, putting all of its might into trying to open up the latch from the inside, even though it’s entirely and futilely impossible.

In another car, maybe, there would be a way to punch out the seats from the back and escape that way, safe and relatively unharmed. Chanyeol thinks if there were a school for this, a kind of Human Trafficking 101, the first thing they would teach would be to escape-proof the vehicle. Pick the right one. Make it impossible to get out of. He’s learned that the hard way; after all, his first kidnapee ended up kicking him in the stomach and flopping out of the trunk. Bound and gagged, he had crawled along the cement until Chanyeol had worked up the strength to go after him, hit him over the head and stuff him back inside.

He’d gotten pay docked for that one. Fucker.

Sometimes, even over the kicking and the clawing and the body slamming, it’s possible to hear that sweet little bag of bones crying out for help, screaming as though someone will hear them. Chanyeol makes it a point not to travel on busy roads unless he has to--and normally, by the time his little bone buddy has woken up, they’re long gone from the city, out on far-reaching stretches of concrete and asphalt, the kind of roads where the speed limits don’t really matter and no one can hear anything when the semi trucks roar past.

He wonders if the guy he’s got now just lost his voice from all his crying. There had been some, certainly, when Chanyeol had made to fill up the gas tank on the side of the road with an old yellow canister and a dirty funnel. He’d heard a bit of weeping, some muttered words and then a scream so loud it nearly startled him--but since then there’s been nothing, not even a peep. Maybe he’s suffocated in there? Chanyeol doesn’t think so. He’s careful about these kinds of things--after all, what good is the product if it’s already dead?

Maybe he’s just come to terms with it. Chanyeol’s had that type, too: the kind that stare at him solemnly when he makes the transfer, who whisper little prayers to themselves as if God himself will come rattling from the heavens, ready to move all the pieces laid out on the chessboard of life just to rescue this one insignificant sack of flesh. He’s had the opposite, too, the ones who demand to know how much their life is worth, who spit at the money that Chanyeol thumbs through solemnly and shouts obscenities at his back like he really gives a damn.

 _I’ll fucking kill you!_ is what they usually say. He has yet to be killed.

Still, there’s some nagging in the back of his head that says he should check on him. Part of it is, certainly, because the price on this kid’s head had been so exorbitantly _huge_ that Chanyeol doesn’t want to make any mistakes. From the little he’s discovered, the thing currently bound in the trunk of his car is the son of some dumbass businessman who apparently went AWOL on some backhanded deals he’d made. As is the way with such things, the blood price was demanded, an exchange for all the capital lost that obviously the poor fucker had no choice about. Likely, it’s just there to teach him a lesson. Chanyeol’s sort of glad it wasn’t a wife or something--he really hates ferrying women in his trunk, there’s just something about it that rubs him the wrong way. His mother didn’t raise him to be like that.

When he pulls his car off onto the side of the road and kills the engine, there’s an eerie silence, something that unsettles him further. Chanyeol grabs at his gun, locked in a holster in the glove compartment, and stuffs it into the front of his jeans. It’s nearing sundown, and he doesn’t think anyone’s really gonna get a good look at him out here in the middle of nowhere. Not even a truck has gone past him for the last thirty miles.

“Rise and shine,” Chanyeol says, as he unlocks the trunk from the outside and uses a palm to lift the red hood of it.

A fist lunges out at him, and nearly clocks him in the neck. He swerves sidelong.

“Hey, now,” Chanyeol coos mildly, but he’s almost pissed. Somehow this guy got out of his bindings, at least the ones around his wrists, and he’s not pleased about it, to say the least.

A pair of hot brown eyes glare at him, red-rimmed and filled with frustration. Dirty hands claw at the edge of the trunk, but he’s too weak to drag himself out of it; he still looks disoriented from the drugs Chanyeol gave him, and using that to his advantage, Chanyeol eases in again, immediately taking up both of the boy’s slender wrists in the large palm of his own.

“I could break these,” he says, and gives a pointed squeeze. The boy is at his mercy; his feet are still bound, and he’s barely made it to the lip of the car. Chanyeol’s strong enough that he can basically hold him up like a fish dangling off a hook. “You’re not going to get far like that.”

The boy stills. Chanyeol gives him a rough shove, back into the trunk, and is about to close the hood of it when the boy screams and does something like--what the fuck is that, a somersault? He goes bowling out of the trunk, head over heels, and when he hits the worn gravel and the salty dirt, he tries to crawl forward until Chanyeol _sighs_ and lunges after him, both of his arms looping around his waist to hold him back against his chest. The boy rips and claws at the air and then, getting smarter, tries to reach for Chanyeol; he manages to get fistfuls of hair, pulling, but Chanyeol would rather he rip out all his carefully dyed hair than gouge out his eyes or ram his fingers into his ears.

By the time Chanyeol’s thrown him back into the trunk and slammed the lid down hard enough to break fingers, he’s worked up a sweat.

Fucking pain in the ass.

The next few miles pass without incident, and there’s hardly even a peep from the trunk. Likely that his new, fiery addition to death row is plotting again, trying to think of another way to escape Chanyeol’s merciless hold on him. Unfortunately, there’s little that he can do—especially now that Chanyeol’s expecting it. Does he really think that Chanyeol’s stupid enough to fall for the same stunt twice? Please.

A twinging, pinching sort of pain tugs at his temples, making him wince and glance in the rear view mirror. Is he bleeding? One hand steadies on the wheel while the other reaches up to touch gingerly at the top of his head. It fucking hurts, but at the very least, the thing in his trunk simply has some strands of his hair to remember him by. A souvenir not many get. He snickers over the low sound of the radio.

Yet the relative silence doesn’t last as long as he wants it to. Eventually there’s a faint, rhythmic pounding, the kind that’s just off beat enough from the music that Chanyeol’s half-singing along to, and it annoys him, digs at him until finally he swerves the car off the road for the _second_ time in thirty minutes, and cranks the shaft into park.

This time, when he opens the trunk, the eyes that stare up at him are round and hopeful.

“I have to pee,” his sweet, troublesome, pain-in-the-ass sack of flesh says to him.

“So pee,” Chanyeol says mildly, one palm fit over the edge of the open trunk. The thing looks aghast.

“Can’t we go to a rest stop or something?” he suggests, in that small kind of voice that Chanyeol knows means something sinister. So he laughs.

“Yeah, sure, and have you run to the first person there? ‘Help, I’ve been kidnapped’? I wasn’t born yesterday.”

The bag of bones sets his jaw. And Chanyeol has to give him credit—he hasn’t tried to roll or leap or even crawl out of the trunk yet, despite this being the perfect opportunity to.

“Please?” he says instead.

This is not the first time he’s been asked such a thing. In fact, he’s had all _kinds_ of wild requests—some that he even humors. After all, if someone wants one last cigarette before they get their brains blown out, or a soda to calm themselves down after they vomit everywhere in fear, it’s not like Chanyeol isn’t a human being like the rest of them. He knows that there are some kindnesses he can actually afford.

That’s how his captive ends up sitting in the front seat next to him for the following eight miles, until the next rest stop, eerily silent, his eyes focused on the side mirror where the static font reads that objects may be closer than they appear.

Chanyeol’s still got his gun snug in the front of his jeans.

As it turns out, there’s not many people for his prisoner to run to, anyway: a few truckers, but they hang out in the parking lot and refuse to talk to anyone else. There’s one businessman, sitting with his car door open, but he’s too engrossed in whatever’s happening on his phone to care when they pull up.

“Remember, you won’t make it three feet before I get you,” Chanyeol reminds him in a calm voice. He doesn’t want to have to shoot the kid’s kneecap out, but he will, if he has to.

And that quiet prisoner of his nods, and reaches for the door handle, and Chanyeol knows that if he were in his position, his fingers would be clammy with sweat.

Chanyeol stands outside the bathroom while he takes care of business. He wants to smoke, but that will take time, and they’re on a deadline, with lots of distance left to clear before the meeting point. Instead, he scuffs his boots against the ground and pretends to be snuffing out a cigarette.

Still—he’s damn hungry. When those big brown eyes return to him, he takes him by the elbow and leads him, staccato step after staccato step, to the bank of vending machines just outside the sidewalk to the large parking lot.

“My dad doesn’t let me eat this shit,” is the first thing out of his prisoner’s mouth when Chanyeol slams a bag of Doritos into his palm. Chanyeol laughs, loudly.

“I don’t really see him showing up to scold you, do you?” Those brown eyes make to shake the head they belong to.

“Consider it dinner,” Chanyeol suggests. Or maybe it’s the reward for having all that spunk earlier—his scalp still fucking hurts, but he has to hand it to him, this thing’s got determination.

“I’m glad, you know,” he’s saying as they make their way back to the car, and Chanyeol’s surprised that he hasn’t even _tried_ to make a break for it, to even run for the trees or the bushes or anything. He has the bag of chips open, already stuffing them greedily into his mouth. “To not be there anymore.”

“To not be where?” Chanyeol says, mildly. He doesn’t find he really cares, but, you know. Social niceties.

“In that house,” he says. “I’m glad you took me.”

And Chanyeol can’t really shove him back into the trunk in a public area, so he helps him into the passenger seat and walks his way back around to let himself in too.

“Yeah? Think you’re so brave, now?” The keys slosh into the ignition, and it’s oddly quiet when it’s just the two of them there, doors closed, in that moment right before the engine turns and roars to life. It’s like there’s something there that he can’t quite read right.

“I wanted to die,” comes out of that determined bag of bones, as he looks out the window, and Chanyeol gapes for a moment, unsure of what to say.

He’s never had something like _this_ happen before.

Fucking pain in the ass.

After all, what do you even say to something like that? If they were friends, maybe Chanyeol would try to console him, or even ask questions. Things like-- _have you talked to anyone_ or _people would miss you_ , but they’re not friends, and Chanyeol barely even knows the guy’s name. He finds it unsettling, in the silence that settles after that outspoken admission, that he can’t seem to find some kind of smart-ass response or a way to break the tension. Instead, it lingers over them, so suffocating that Chanyeol cracks the window open some to let in the cold night air.

After a few more minutes, there’s another quip from the passenger side. It’s said after he crunches down on the last chip in his bag--

“I tried, you know. Cutting, pills, I was too scared for the noose or whatever,” and here he sandwiches the empty bag of chips between his palms, making a loud noise, “...but I was considering it. Even a car crash, I figured, that might work.”

What the hell is _wrong_ with this guy? Chanyeol glances at him sidelong, aghast.

“Do you have any idea what it’s like to live in a house where your every fucking move is critiqued?” The voice that says the words is warm and amused, but the eyes that look at Chanyeol, briefly, are all wrong, glassy and weak. “I couldn’t even jerk off without doing it wrong.”

Something tingles in his throat--he realizes that it’s laughter, threatening to bubble up from somewhere inside of him. Chanyeol swallows it down.

He has no idea what it’s like to live that life: privileged, but trapped. 

He knows what it’s like to slum it, though

“At least you had stuff,” Chanyeol finally says after a moment, almost bitter. “At least there was food on the table.”

He remembers the pain of an empty stomach, acute and sudden, and reaches down to pick up the open soda can in the cup holder. He gulps it down, and the guy--what was his name, what was his name, Baek-something?--laughs, a light, tinkling sort of sound like the bells on a shop door, or ice scraping up on glass.

“And do you think I got to eat most of it? It’s not like my father could stand having an unattractive kid, that just wouldn’t do.” And the captive tosses the chip bag onto the floor of the car, where it starts to slowly unfurl. “Every time I put anything into my mouth, it was like I had to calculate how many calories I had left to spend for the day. I hate that. I just want to eat pizza and play games and be a normal person, not this...thing he wanted me to be.”

Chanyeol’s hand curls around the steering wheel in annoyance.

“Yeah, okay, it must be so _hard_ to be rich and pretty,” he drawls, a little more anger seeping into his voice than he wanted there to be. “Try being ugly and poor and then let me know if you still wanna _die_ so bad.”

And this rich guy, this expiring sack of flesh, this stupid bragger with the big brown eyes and the wide, glittering smile, he turns his head and examines Chanyeol like he’s a show dog in a championship, and Chanyeol sits up a little taller and for one harrowing second he forgets that he’s the one in charge here, that he’s the one that should be putting the other under the microscope--or even better, that they shouldn’t be talking at all.

Baekhyun--that’s _right_ , that’s his name--smiles at him, and shakes his head.

“You’re not ugly,” he says, matter-of-fact.

Chanyeol falls silent, and they continue along the highway.

It’s after forty miles or so that he realizes Baekhyun is asleep. There’s been relative, suspicious quiet from the passenger side, and as Chanyeol gulps down the last of his Coke, crunching the can in annoyance, he realizes that Baekhyun doesn’t even stir. Rather, he’s slumped against the side of the car like all the tension’s drained out of him, his shoulders soft and pliant, his lips parted with hot breath that stains the inside of the window with fog before it fades out again.

Yeah, it’s embarrassing, but he likes it better like this. Rather than having to worry about the thumping in the trunk, or how his prisoner might knock his head against something and go unconscious, he knows exactly where Baekhyun is, and what he’s doing. It relieves some of the tension and--well, fuck it, Baekhyun is pretty cute when he sleeps.

He has such a childlike face, where all the lines of tension seem to go soft, and even if he has wrinkles, Chanyeol can’t see them at all. His hair is this messy tousled grey mess that’s definitely not natural, but even though he should be able to see dark roots climbing up out of the top of his head, there’s nothing. Must have dyed it recently. The clothes that he’s wearing are the ones that Chanyeol found him in--and they’re well-fitted, just oversized enough to be fashionable.

Driving on the highway at night, with nothing to look at, can be fucking boring. So maybe that’s why he keeps stealing glances at Baekhyun, wondering about the thoughts in his head. And yeah, sure, he can imagine how it might feel to be trapped in a life that is as affluent in its luxuries as it is in its tragedies. For someone like him, with a soul craving excitement and adventure, he figures it would be crushing to be told what to do, how to act or even what to eat.

But Baekhyun still smiles like there’s nothing wrong. He still wears an innocence that should, by all rights, be stripped from him by now, torn apart from his skin and tossed into the trash.

And Chanyeol finds that kind of charming, in a way.

Fucking idiot.

Fuming at himself, he tries to readjust his long legs in the car, fidgeting, and slams a palm against the steering wheel. He comes just shy of accidentally laying on the horn.

Double fucking idiot.

It’s nearing dawn when Baekhyun finally stirs, his head craning back up like a wind-up toy that’s had its gears turned. Chanyeol’s eyes feel bloodshot, and he wipes a palm over his nose and cheeks to try to wash the exhaustion out of him. He needs a goddamn break.

“Where are we?” Baekhyun asks, disoriented, and Chanyeol squints out the window.

“Nearly there,” he says, by way of answer. Like hell he’s going to tell Baekhyun where he’s taking him.

“Okay,” Baekhyun says in response, and he sounds so eerily chipper that Chanyeol feels grossed out. 

Who the hell looks _forward_ to dying?

Disgruntled, he glances out the window briefly before looking ahead again. The roads are getting more populated as the hours pass, as people wake up to go to their jobs, and Chanyeol realizes that he should have put on a hat, something to cover the wavy mess of his red hair to make himself stand out less. The last thing he needs is Baekhyun to start pounding on the windows, crying and screaming, and to have the witnesses pick him out of a line-up based on his shitty dye job.

He’s lifting up a hand to run his fingers back through it--and finds, to his own horror, that there’s another hand already there. He jerks back, his arm folding at the elbow.

Baekhyun’s leaning across the console, his fingers combing back through Chanyeol’s hair, and as much as his hand wants to dart out like a viper and slap him away, he--doesn’t. And he doesn’t know why he doesn’t, just that it feels like the wrong thing to do. But Baekhyun’s long, dainty fingers are gone before Chanyeol can even think of something aggressive to say--they’re wrapped around the volume dial of the radio, turning it up to at least a ten or eleven.

Pop-rock music blares out of the speakers, and Chanyeol winces, but--

“I love this song,” Baekhyun shouts over the radio, and immediately moves to roll his window down, and--oh, for fuck’s sake--Chanyeol cracks his down a bit more, too. Cold, stiff air comes swimming into the car, pinching at his nose and his eyes, but it’s the kind of refreshing that comes from dunking your head into a pool of water or splashing your face in the bathroom. He likes it. He needed it.

Baekhyun is shouting the lyrics along with the singer on the radio, and Chanyeol’s eyes dart nervously between him and the road, but--it’s one of his favorite songs, too.

So he tentatively, almost _shyly_ , starts singing along, too.

Baekhyun’s waving his arms around like a maniac, and Chanyeol actually laughs, and that only spurs him on more. Soon, they’re both shouting and harmonizing and missing the high notes but trying for them anyway. And Chanyeol thinks this guy is too charming to have meant all that stuff about dying. How could someone so bright, full of so much energy, really have such a darkness inside of him?

Baekhyun’s sleeves sag as he dances in the car.

Chanyeol glances at his skin, and decides not to question any of his declarations anymore.

But isn’t it wrong? That’s the thought which has been plaguing him for the last hour, with Baekhyun soothing out lyrics to soft love songs and upbeat pop tunes one after another. It burrows deep inside of him, and there’s so little there to begin with that it’s easy for such thoughts to make a home out of the tangled wires and broken windows of his heart.

If Baekhyun is really a person who hasn’t done anything wrong, then--why should he have to feel this way?

Why should he know pain, and discomfort, when he should only know the love and affection of someone who truly sees him?

Chanyeol’s never felt this way about _anyone_ before. It’s like Baekhyun swings his eyes to look at him and Chanyeol’s whole body goes into overdrive, rough and uncomfortable, a blushing, sweating mess.

This is just work, isn’t it?

Isn’t it?

By the time they pull into another rest stop, it’s nearly eight in the morning. Chanyeol gives in and has that cigarette he’s been craving for the last six hours. His hand shakes as he flicks the lighter.

“I don’t think I can do it,” he says out loud.

Baekhyun looks up at him curiously, from where he’s sitting on top of a picnic table, his bright, clean, too-expensive sneakers neatly pressed together on the seat.

“Do what?”

Chanyeol’s throat feels dry, and his lips close around the cigarette before he speaks, smoke blooming past his words. “I don’t want you to die.”

Baekhyun laughs again, that tinkling sound, but it’s soft and forlorn.

“I’ve been sort of thinking the same thing,” he admits, and that makes Chanyeol’s heart hurt less.

And he’s a fucking idiot for even suggesting it, but--he turns, animated, and gestures to Baekhyun with his free hand.

“I have a hell of a lot of savings. If we drove across the country, no one would find us. No one would even know,” he insists, his words crashing together, almost garbled nonsense as he tries to put as many ideas as he can together in the hopes of convincing him. “They’d be pissed, but I mean eventually they’d just look for someone or something else. We’d ditch the car, of course. But I mean, like, I could totally get a new one--”

Baekhyun is grinning, he realizes. He’s looking down at the space between his bent knees, and he’s grinning.

“You want to risk all that?” Baekhyun says softly. He still won’t look at Chanyeol. “For me?”

He realizes that embarrasses him more than he can say. For one long moment--and it feels like fucking forever--he sits in silence, mulling that over, trying to figure out the pretty words that Baekhyun deserves to hear.

He can’t find them.

“For you,” Chanyeol agrees.

The plan is rickety, at best, like a kid’s project from kindergarten that’s been held together by scotch tape and glue, something where the corners lift and the pictures are off-center. Chanyeol knows that he’s being absolutely ridiculous--but it’s easy enough for him to start work in a new place, and if all he has to sacrifice is his pretty red car for Baekhyun’s happiness, well, he’ll fucking do it and do it with a smile.

The plan is for Chanyeol to leave Baekhyun at a motel, drive to a bank, pull out his funds in cash, and drive to the next town over to ditch the car. If they hit a used car place, locally owned, there’s less of a fuss; he can always drive his precious vehicle out to the middle of nowhere and torch it, if necessary. They’re not expected at the meeting place for another couple hours: which is plenty of time to start racing past it, driving like a madman out of the state and far, far away. Maybe even out of the country? Chanyeol will have to see how far his money will go.

He’s rubbing his fingers forlornly along the familiar leather of his steering wheel as he puts the car into park in front of the motel. He’d had a lot more in savings than he’d thought he would have--naturally, they’ll be able to trace that transaction, but from then on, they won’t have much of a paper trail, and getting new ID cards and birth certificates will be pricey but relatively simple. He’s not worried about that.

The thing he’s worried about is that when he comes out of his car, a black ball cap finally stuffed on top of his messy hair and a black jacket half-zipped up the front, he doesn’t see Baekhyun waiting for him anywhere.

He checks the room, first--an hourly rate, and dirty enough that even Chanyeol wouldn’t sleep there--but there’s no sign of him. As he goes to the office, Chanyeol can feel his heart panicking, clawing at the inside of his throat as if escaping the turmoil of nerves in his stomach is possible. The man there says he hasn’t seen him. Chanyeol wastes twenty minutes looking around the parking lot, the staircases, the other buildings--and he finds nothing.

He goes back to the room one last time, just a wild guess, the determination of a madman: and that’s where he finds it.

An hour later, Chanyeol is driving to the meeting place.

There’s no banging in his trunk, and no sound coming from the radio. There’s no blood on his fingers or under his nails, nothing suspicious in the passenger seat except a crumpled, empty chip bag that still rolls around on the floorboard, and his hat, tossed out on the leather seat.

There’s some smudges on the window, like someone’s fallen asleep there before, but he refuses to look at them. He refuses to look at anything but the road.

When he arrives, he purposefully parks a good fifty feet back. It gives him time to smooth his face over, to paint into the dips and crevices that are crestfallen with upset, and fit into something more professional. His keys slide into his palm as he comes out of the driver side. His hand is clammy and wet.

“You got him?” says the gruff voice of one of the men. They are at least five or six standing around--they’ve all got guns, some of them still holstered, though two of them are armed with shotguns.

They’re not going to like what he’s brought them.

Chanyeol fakes a smile, and nods.

_You’re a handsome idiot,_ the hastily scribbled note had read, done up on one side of a napkin.

_Did you really think I would run away with you?_

And when Chanyeol opens the trunk, he reaches down into the empty space there to finger his pistol, and says a quick, silent prayer that all of his shots--all eighteen rounds--will connect before they realize that he's brought nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> “An inversion of Stockholm syndrome, called Lima syndrome, has been proposed, in which abductors develop sympathy for their hostages. An abductor may also have second thoughts or experience empathy towards their victims.”


End file.
